


always in this twilight

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [167]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Now we have Sticks' POV, Post-Chapter 21 of WTHC, Slavery, Sticks (OC) - Freeform, Title from a Florence + the Machine Song, mentions of Belle/Estrela/Arien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21882280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Sticks stood with her back against the storm.
Relationships: Amlach & Original Female Character(s), Gwindor & Original Female Character(s), Maedhros | Maitimo & Original Female Character(s)
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [167]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	always in this twilight

_Sticks stood with her back against the wall, as the yellow-haired one with the small eyes and large hands reached for her. Belle always told her to be good, if the men spoke to her. But more importantly, Belle said,_

Don’t give them reason to speak to you.

_Sticks had been searching for Frog. Frog could walk—he weren’t a baby, not that Sticks knew—but he crawled oftener. That’s why they gave him his name._

Don’t give them reason to speak to you.

_The yellow-haired man put his heavy hand on Sticks’ shoulder. Then Maria came round the corner of the mess-house, with her hair wet from washing, clinging in curls to her neck._

_Just like that, the hand was gone, and the man was gone. Sticks scuttled away, but not before she saw his arm around Maria’s waist, and not before Maria met her eyes and smiled._

Sometimes smiles tell you to run.

Gwindor doesn’t let them stop for miles and miles. Sticks cries until her nose is stuffed up and her eyes are sore. She’s already stiff, and they’ve long been cold. Frog would be _barefoot_ , if it weren’t for the rags that—

Gwindor keeps saying, “Hurry up,” in the dead tone that grown people use when they do not want to say they are tired. Sticks scowls at his shoulders. Her skin feels like it’s bleeding, bleeding over every inch.

She liked it better when she was screaming, hitting him. Sticks is used to sun and rain, dirt so fine it films your eyes and stones sharp enough to cut. She ain’t soft. None of _this_ is what hurts her.

“We haven’t had nothing to eat,” Sticks says, at last. “Not for days.”

Gwindor stops mid-stride, jerking like a rope knotted around his middle and tugged him back. “Damn me,” he says hollowly, which Sticks agrees with. He presses one hand against his hip, as if there’s a wound in _his_ belly, and then he lifts his arm awkwardly, to point. “You see?”

“ _What_?” Sticks snaps. She doesn’t add, _Damn you_ , but she’s tempted.

“Those trees yonder. We’ll stop there. All right?”

Frog is bleeding at the corner of his lips. His eyes are hooded. His little brown hands are clenched.

“Oh, it’s all right, Soldier,” Sticks answers, colder than the air around them. “Let’s go to the trees, and rest. Shall we?”

Gwindor glares at her.

What she didn’t tell—what she didn’t tell _Russandol_ , when she gave him his name, is that she wanted one too. Her Ma gave her a name, and Sticks should have treasured it. Her Ma gave her a name, but when the men came for Sticks—

She forgot it.

The trees link their branches overhead like fingers.

Sticks chews on meat that tastes more like salt than anything else. Maybe Russandol was right, with all his talk of not being hungry. After a while, it doesn’t feel right to eat anymore.

Her eyes flood.

Frog whines.

“Sticks,” Gwindor mumbles. She cannot look at his face. If he isn’t glaring, she’ll see the river again. Not that she had eyes for Gwindor, then. Not that she had eyes for anyone but Russandol, and the devil-stranger who took him. “I—”

“Belle will hate you.”

He goes rabbit-still. A great tall man, with hands that could hurt them, and he looks _frightened_.

“She’s going to hate every gut in your body,” Sticks says, shrill. “Even worse than me an’ Frog do.”

Gwindor doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Every gut of Sticks is twisted up and ruined. If she shuts her eyes, she’s going to feel herself tucked against Russandol’s side again. Feel his thin strong arms and his long-fingered hands, and the way his body trembled when his voice didn’t.

Russandol didn’t want them to be afraid, but Sticks was old enough to know.

_Sticks stood with her back against the storm._

“Bet you ain’t know how Belle’s thinking of him! And you just—just _leaving_ him and not thinking twice about how far he came, how far he drug himself and us—he was good, was Russandol, and—”

But it’s too late to keep shouting down Gwindor. Too late, and in a lonely, barren, unfeeling world. The sun is lowering in the sky and the mountains are grim. Sticks’ voice dies like anything else dies: awful fast.

She stares at the scrap of meat in her hands. Then she tucks it into Frog’s fist.

“Eat up,” she rasps, not looking at Gwindor—Gwindor, who has said nothing more.

Frog’s body trembles.


End file.
